


could we come close to having it all?

by piecesofgold



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/M, First Time, On the Run, Post-Spider-Man: Far From Home, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, literally just me trying to get that ffh ending out my system, there’s one (1) paragraph about suicide contemplation and i can’t find a tag so here’s a warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 05:52:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19739608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piecesofgold/pseuds/piecesofgold
Summary: he wonders, sometimes, what he would do if they managed to track down william and the rest of beck’s crew, if they even manage to find them. if he would kill them. logic says no, but this newfound rage and fear he hasn’t felt since ben died says otherwise.





	could we come close to having it all?

**Author's Note:**

> okay listen.
> 
> that mid-credit scene after ffh ?? what the fuck.
> 
> this is basically my take on What The Fuck Is Happening Next because i’m STRESSED and will protect peter and mj to the death.
> 
> totally not projecting my own trauma + bad coping mechanisms onto peter you can’t prove anything.
> 
> spoilers ahead, obvs.
> 
> title; lewis capaldi - hold me while you wait

peter doesn’t know where they are.

argentina, he thinks. he’d heard snatches of the radio from the boot of the car he’d been hauled into after a very cramped journey in the cargo hold of a plane, and swears he heard a guard mutter something about buenos aires when he’d made it to the airport in seattle.

fury had told him about a month ago, while he was in alaska, that they couldn’t risk SHIELD carriers or stark jets on him for a while, that they were already working overtime to keep him off the radar of those wanting him hauled into prison on death row. the daily bugle is still stirring the pot, calling spider-man a terrorist - peter had just barely managed to stop himself from throwing up.

he wonders, sometimes, what he would do if they managed to track down william and the rest of beck’s crew, if they even manage to find them. if he would kill them. logic says no, but this newfound rage and fear he hasn’t felt since ben died says otherwise.

so he’s in a safe house - more like a room, really - in buenos aires, and it’s somewhere between three and five in the morning but peter doesn’t sleep more than two or three hours a night anyway, not since the blip (he hates that name for it too, for the record. five years isn’t a blip. half the population of the planet collapsing into mounds of dust isn’t a _blip_ ).

buenos aires, a safe-room, and michelle jones asleep next to him.

she had shown up out of nowhere, on the doorstep of his alaskan safe house, eyes rimmed red and hair in total disarray, backpack clutched desperately in her hand, and if four months of being on the run hadn’t put peter’s paranoia at an all time high he would have run into her arms there and then.

instead he’d stood, frozen, staring at her and the furious looking guard holding her arm, and pointed shakily at her. “tell me something only you would know about me.”

(he almost says _about us_ but after four months apart with no communication he’s not sure if there is an _us_ anymore.)

mj stares at him for a moment, before breathing deeply and composing herself. “broken black dahlia necklace.”

she barely finishes the sentence before peter’s running and sweeping her up in a hug.

that was two weeks ago, and mj hasn’t shown any signs of leaving. peter can’t say he’s rushing her.

there were letters and recordings in her bag, from may, ned, betty, happy. peter stayed up all day and night reading and watching and memorising every word.

may has gone underground too, happy has sporadic contact with both her and peter, ned and betty have been hauled into questioning more than once but been let go when it became increasingly obvious that they have no idea where peter is.

“did they get to you?” peter asks quietly, reading betty’s letter once more. mj, reading a book at his side, tenses.

“they tried to,” she murmurs. “my mom wouldn’t even let them through the door.”

“your family - do they know -“

mj snorts, bitter. “they helped pack my bags. men in suits watching the house and wanting to drag me into interrogation rooms didn’t really put them at ease.” she looks over at him, eyes sad. “they don’t believe any of it, you know. no one at school, either.”

it should comfort him. it doesn’t.

they don’t go out much. rotating guards bring supplies, mj ducks out for hours at a time some days and comes back with books, and peter usually skulks the perimeter of a night. it’s better than waking up, soaked in sweat and gasping from nightmares.

he doesn’t touch her for a week, not sure where their boundaries are now. their hands brush occasionally, and she sleeps beside him when they _do_ sleep, otherwise she reads and draws, and he stares at the ceiling fan listening to her breathing, focusing on that instead of the panic humming under his skin, making his hands shake and chest tighten.

he doesn’t touch her until she touches him, the night he manages to doze off and wakes up screaming, mysterio’s face behind his eyelids and taunting voice echoing in his ears, blaming him for everything, his fault, his fault, _his fault_ -

“peter!”

peter swings at the noise, a reflex action - and mj grabs his hands in hers, eyes frantic and tired, face pale in the late moonlight. peter can’t calm down, breathing still coming out in loud gasps, his brain screaming _danger danger danger_ -

“black dahlia necklace!” mj yells suddenly, nails digging into peter’s hand. “black delila necklace.”

peter goes lax, a sob escaping him like fabric tearing. he curls in on himself, the heel of his hands pressed against his eyes as if he could even attempt to stop himself from crying. mj’s hands are trembling as she pulls him back towards her, wraps her arms around his chest as he grips her shoulders, gulping breaths. “fuck,” is all he manages, lump painful in his throat.

mj presses her face into his chest, and peter realises she’s crying, too. “we’re okay,” she keeps repeating. “we’re okay, peter.” he doesn’t know if she’s saying it for his benefit or her own.

neither of them sleep. they hold one another all night.

* * *

mj kisses him for the first time in four months in the tiny bathroom while they’re brushing their teeth, and peter has to steady himself on the counter as a wave of anxiety hits him, a reminder of how much danger he’s putting her in, of how he should tell her to leave and get as far away from him as possible, but that he desperately, selfishly doesn’t want her to go.

stark industries is taking the daily bugle to court, he reads online, glances at the photo of pepper at the press conference looking grave, happy at her side. he thinks of morgan being dragged into this as well, bile rising in his throat.

he wonders if it’d be better, somehow, to end it. to stop the mobs after him and may, to keep mj and ned and betty out of danger. if he wasn’t alive, they’d be safe. he thinks about it until mj rolls over in her sleep and buries her face in his shoulder. then he just hates himself for thinking about it in the first place.

he can’t. can’t do that to may or ned or mj or happy.

god, he needs fucking therapy. is there a sector for that, he wonders, superhero therapists? there should be. they can’t all live like this, surely.

* * *

by some cruel twist of fate, after almost a month in argentina and then a week in barcelona, they end up in france. peter almost laughs and mj’s mouth twitches, hand reaching over to intertwine their fingers. he caresses the space between her thumb and forefinger, grounding himself.

not paris, though. lyon, in an apartment building facing the saône. it’s look like something they’d find in an art history or architecture book; too picturesque and perfect to be real.

there’s only one single bed, though. peter weakly offers to take the dingy sofa until mj arches an eyebrow at him. “we just spent the last five weeks in the same bed and now you’re embarrassed?” she reaches over and tugs lightly at his hair that’s overgrown and curly, now, in dire need of a cut. “come to bed, idiot.” and isn’t it odd how accustomed to her he already is, that he knows she’ll curl her legs into his hip, press her face into his shoulder, won’t know what to do with her hands until peter takes hold of them.

he thinks they both sleep better as long as the other is there.

* * *

mj comes back one day from her evening walk with a new sketchbook, pencils, and a box of red hair dye, holding the latter up with a hopeful look on her face.

“...you’re dyeing your hair?” he asks, frowning.

“yep. wanna help?”

which is how he ends up in their tiny bathroom, gloved hands slick with dye, mj humming out of tune under her breath as she watches him squint at the instructions, corner of her mouth turned up in amusement.

it turns out well, he thinks, absentmindedly running his fingers through her new red curls once she’s dried it. he tucks a lock behind her ear, trails his fingers down the side of her neck. she’s completely still, letting him memorise her quietly, until she taps his wrist and pulls his body towards her, and he kisses her like he’s terrified of losing her because he _is_.

“i want to take you to paris,” he breathes, forehead against her, drinking in the way her eyes look amber in the light.

mj nudges their noses together. “we’ll go, someday.”

“i’m holding you to that.”

“you better.”

they’re smiling but it’s sad, the weight of not knowing _when_ they’d be able to go anywhere together again without someone out to get him.

she pulls him in for another kiss, and peter melts into it, moves his hands over her body. it’s not until he feels her moving them slowly across the room that he jerks back. “mj - i - are you -“

“it’s okay,” she says quickly, eyes bright and face flushed. “i - bought protection -“

“you bought _condoms_?!” peter exclaims, feeling lightheaded and too hot.

“hey, we’re teenagers, dating, on the run from a murderous government and sharing beds, not exactly a major leap.”

and peter laughs, for what feels like the first time in months, buries his face in her shoulder and breathes shakily. “you’re amazing.”

“not so bad yourself,” mj says, shy. he kisses her again.

their first time is - well, not great, in truth. his hands tremble tearing open a condom, fumbles with his fingers making sure she’s wet enough and being terrified of hurting her until she tells him to _shut up, i’m fine_ , before shakily pushing inside and coming far too quickly. mj giggles at his hurried apologies, tears in her eyes, and he takes a full twenty seconds to feel slightly offended and to admire hearing her laugh before moving down the bed to get his mouth on her, and she stops laughing immediately.

(peter loves her forever in that one moment when she comes and it’s like being doused in ice.)

* * *

“i’m scared.”

peter blinks awake from the doze he’d fallen into. he doesn’t ask her to elaborate, lays a hand on her bare shoulder instead, fingers the chain of her necklace.

“what if we can’t go home?” she continues in a whisper. “everyone - they’ve seen your face, your names attached to spider-man, and what they’ve been saying about you -“ she stops, swallows, and peter brushes a tear from the corner of her eye.

they’re leaving tomorrow. he’d gotten a text on his burner phone from an unknown number telling them to be at the airport for four in the morning. he wonders where they’ll be holed up in for weeks on end this time, stomach rolling.

“you can.”

“what?”

“you can go home,” peter corrects her. “they’re after me, mj, probably will be forever. they’re not after you. you have your family, school. this doesn’t have to ruin your life as well.”

mj stares at him. “you don’t get it, do you?”

“huh?”

“i’m not going home if you’re not there.” there’s a steel in her voice and a look in her eyes that bode no argument, and all peter can do is lean forward, pour everything he can’t say into kissing her.

* * *

in eindhoven, it rains for a week straight. they sit in the doorway of their house, backs against the doorframe, and watch it pour down, peter forcing himself to breathe fresh air and calm his forever-pounding heart. opposite him, mj ties her hair back (still red, darker then it had been) and sketches the skyline, so completely absorbed in it peter doesn’t think she sees him watching her until she leans her leg against his.

he’s going to write to may later, and mj’s going to write to her family, let them know they’re safe and okay as they can be.

peter thinks everything is about as far from okay as it can be right now - stark industries vs the daily bugle court case is underway, SHIELD is still denouncing the video for all its worth and proving its fabrication, beck’s crew are still nowhere to be found but at last check in happy told him that falcon and the winter soldier had a lead somewhere in romania.

he doesn’t want to hope, not yet, wouldn’t even know where to start with picking up the shattered pieces of his life. maybe he doesn’t have to. _if you can’t fix it, you’ve got to stand it_. he doesn’t remember where he read that, but it brings him a sense of comfort.

mj looks up, then, and smiles. peter grins back, knocking their knees together.

_we’re okay_ , he thinks, hopes, wants so much it hurts. _we’ll be okay_.

**Author's Note:**

> this was actually going to be much longer with sam and bucky cameos but it’s been five days since i started it and i’m just way too tired and busy. sequel maybe ?? we’ll see.
> 
> comments and kudos appreciated as always!


End file.
